Page 8 of Crossfire Creek Siege

Noah moved to the front of the hangar, weapon up and ready. Owen took a position to his right, Rena to his left, and Gage flanked beside her. The four of them formed a loose line, backs to the scattered light of the birthday candles, faces toward the black outline of the door.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped. No movement. No sound but the hum of the emergency power grid dying its last breath. Then the doors jerked apart, an explosion of noise and light and wind—

Something small and metallic clattered across the floor.

Flashbang.

“Down!” Gage shouted.

The detonation ripped the world apart. The sound hit first, a brutal crack that shattered air and thought, followed by white light so violent it erased everything for a heartbeat too long. His eardrums screamed. His vision tore open into blinding streaks of white and violet.

He hit the concrete, blinking, shaking his head to clear the ringing. His stomach lurched, his pulse pounding behind his eyes. The kids were screaming now, raw, terrified sounds bouncing off the steel walls. Somewhere metal fell, skittering across the floor.

Through the haze, Gage forced his body upright, gun raised, even though he could barely see. Shapes were moving at the far end of the hangar, silhouettes against the afterimage still burning in his retinas.

Beside him, Rena went down on one knee, her breath sharp and ragged. He saw her hand tremble but her Glock never left her grip. She was shaking. Maybe from a migraine or flashback. Maybe both. But she hadn’t dropped her weapon.

The ringing in his ears dulled to a low roar. Then came the next sound. Boots. Heavy. Multiple. Advancing through the smoke.

Whoever was coming through that door sure as hell wasn’t here for birthday cake.

The hangar doors groaned wider, metal shrieking against metal. Smoke from the flashbang still hung thick in the air, turning everything into a haze of shifting shadows and flickering light. Through it, Gage saw movement.

Dark shapes flooding in fast, low, and coordinated.

Armed men. At least a dozen. Full combat gear. Helmets, body armor, suppressed rifles, night vision goggles glowing faintly green through the smoke. The precision in their movements made his gut twist.

He blinked hard, trying to clear the last of the blinding white from his vision. For a second, he thought, hoped, this might still be some kind of twisted exercise, a staged drill gone too far. But the way they moved said otherwise. Too tight. Too lethal.

Rena crouched beside him, her breathing steadying, Glock up and ready. Owen was behind a support beam, covering the right flank. Noah stood in the open, leveling his weapon with the kind of defiance that came from a man who’d led soldiers through worse.

The lead intruder pivoted toward him, his rifle raised.

Gage didn’t think. He fired.

The shot cracked through the chaos, a sharp echo swallowed by the vastness of the hangar. The man dropped hard, weapon clattering across the floor.

And that’s when it happened.

All hell broke loose.

Gunfire erupted from the doorway, muzzle flashes strobing through the smoke. The air filled with the whip of bullets and the sharp smell of cordite. Kids screamed, ducking behind crates and barriers. The high-pitched whine of ricochets filled the air, cutting through the ringing still lodged in Gage’s ears.

He moved on instinct. Down, cover, return fire. The Glock barked twice more, the recoil biting into his bad shoulder. Pain shot down his arm, but he ignored it. There was no time for pain. Only targets, movement, survival.

Beside him, Rena fired toward the advancing figures, her aim steady even from her crouching position. Noah belted an order that was swallowed by the chaos.

The intruders kept coming.

Gage hit the ground hard, grabbing Rena’s arm as a burst of gunfire shredded the air above them. “Move!” he shouted, his voice lost in the thunder of shots.

They dove for cover, sliding behind another of the concrete culverts used for low-crawl drills. Rounds smacked into the metal supports nearby, sharp cracks echoing like hail on a tin roof. The air burned with the smell of powder and smoke.

Gage shoved Rena ahead of him toward the open end of the culvert, both of them scrambling inside. The interior was cold and gritty, the rough concrete pressing against his palms as he pulled himself in beside her.

“Stay low,” he rasped.

He could barely hear himself over the ringing in his ears. The flashbang had wrecked his balance, every sound muffled and distorted. His shoulder screamed with each movement, but adrenaline kept him going.